“Well, do you think she was English?” she persisted.
French hesitated. Did he? He really was not sure. The evidence seemed strong, and yet it was just as strong, or stronger, for her being an American. Mr. Williams, for example, was——
“You don’t know,” Mrs. French broke in. “Well, now, see here. Mr. Williams said she was American?”
“That’s it,” her husband rejoined. “He said——”
“And that bank manager and his clerk, they thought she was American?”
“Yes, but——”
“And the shops she bought and sold the jewellery at, and the Savoy, and the Southampton police, they all thought she was American?”
“Yes, but we don’t——”
“Well, that ought surely to give you something.”
“That they were sisters? I thought of that, but the handwriting shows that they weren’t.”
“Of course I don’t mean sisters. Think again.”
French sat up sharply.
“What do you mean, Emily? I don’t follow what you’re after.”
His wife ignored the interruption.
“And there’s another thing you might have thought of,” she continued. “That Williams man thought he had seen the woman before. What age is he?”
French was becoming utterly puzzled.
“What age?” he repeated helplessly. “I don’t know. About sixty, I should think.”
“Just so,” said his wife. “And that other man, that Scarlett, he thought he had seen her before. What age is he?”
The Inspector moved nervously.
“Really, Emily,” he protested, “I wish you’d explain what you’re getting at. I don’t take your meaning in the least.”
“You would if you’d use your head,” his wife snapped. “What age is that Scarlett?”
“About the same as the other—fifty-five or sixty. But what has that got to do——”
“But the young fellow, that bank clerk; he didn’t remember her?”
“No, but——”
“Well, there you are—silly! What would a woman be who could make up like another woman, and put on an English or American talk, and be remembered by old Londoners? Why, a child could guess that, Watson!”
When Mrs. French called her husband by the name of the companion of the great Holmes, it signified two things, first, that she was in what he always referred to as “a good twist,” and secondly, that she felt pleasantly superior, having seen something—or thinking she had—which he had missed. He was therefore always delighted when a conversation reached this stage, believing that something helpful was about to materialise.
But on this occasion he grasped her meaning as soon as she had spoken. Of course! How in all the earthly world had he missed the point? The woman was an actress; a former London actress! That would explain the whole thing. And if so, he would soon find her. Actors’ club secretaries and attendants, theatrical agents, stage doorkeepers, the editors of society papers—scores of people would have known her, and he would have an easy task to learn her name and her history.
He jumped up and kissed his wife. “By Jove, Emily! You’re a fair wonder,” he cried warmly, and she, still placidly knitting, unsuccessfully attempted to hide the affection and admiration she felt for him by a trite remark about the folly of an old fool.
Next morning, French, with a new and thoroughly satisfactory programme before him, sallied forth at quite the top of his form. He had made a list of theatrical agencies at which he intended first to apply, after which, if luck had up to then eluded him, he would go round the theatres and have a word with the stage door keepers, finally applying to the older actor-managers and producers and any one else from whom he thought he might gain information.
But his quest turned out to be even simpler than he had dared to hope. The superior young ladies of the first three agencies at which he called shook their pretty heads over the photograph and could throw no light on his problem. But at the fourth, the girl made a suggestion at which French leaped.
“No,” she said, “I don’t know any one like that, but if she’s left the stage some time I wouldn’t; I’ve only been here about two years. And I don’t know any one who could help you; this place has not been open very long. But I’ll tell you,” she went on, brightening up. “Mr. Rohmer is inside. If any one in London would know, he should. If you catch him coming out you could ask him.”
Mr. Horace Rohmer! The prince of producers! French knew his name well, though he had never met him. He thanked the girl and sat down to wait.
Presently she called to him, “He’s just going,” and French, stepping forward, saw a short, stout, rather Jewish looking gentleman moving to the stairs. He hastened after him, and, introducing himself, produced his photograph and asked his question.
The famous producer glanced at the card and smiled.
“Oh, Lor’ yes,” he announced, “I know her. But these people wouldn’t.” He indicated the agency and its personnel with a backward nod. “She was before their time. Why, that’s the great Cissie Winter; at least, she had the makings of being great at one time. She was first lady in Panton’s company a dozen years ago or more. I remember her in Oh, Johnny!, The Duchess, The Office Girl, and that lot—good enough plays in their day, but out of date now. I hope she’s not in trouble?”
“It’s a matter of stolen diamonds,” French answered, “but I’m not suggesting she is guilty. We want some explanations, that’s all.”
“I should be sorry to hear there was anything wrong,” Mr. Rohmer declared. “I thought a lot of her at one time, though she did go off and make a muck of things.”
“How was that, sir?”
“Some man. Went off to live with some man, a married man, and well on to being elderly. At least, that was the story at the time. I’m not straightlaced, and I shouldn’t have minded that if she had only kept up her stage work. But she didn’t. She just dropped out of sight. And she might have risen to anything. A promising young woman lost. Sickening, I call it.”
“I suppose you could give me no hint as to how I might trace her?”
The producer shrugged his shoulders.
“Not the slightest, I’m afraid. I didn’t even know that she was alive.”
“What theatres did she play in?”
“Several, but it was in the Comedy she did her best work.”
“I’ll try there.”
“You can try, but don’t build too much on it. Theatrical staffs change quickly and have short memories. If you’ve no luck there you should go to Jacques—you know, Richard Jacques the producer. If my memory serves me, he put out those plays I mentioned. If not, he can tell you who did.”
French was overjoyed. This was indeed a stroke of luck. He had proved his theory—he was already beginning to overlook the part his wife had played in it—he had done a neat piece of deduction, and it had been justified. He had now obtained information which must lead him infallibly to his goal. His next business must be at the Comedy, where, if his luck held, he might obtain information which would put him straight on the woman’s track.
As he turned away from the agency, French felt a touch on his shoulder. It was Mr. Duke, and the old gentleman greeted him warmly and asked of his progress.
“I’m just going in here for some coffee,” he went on, indicating the somewhat old-fashioned and retiring restaurant before which they stood. “Come and have a cup with me. It’s ages since I saw you or heard what you were doing.”
French was full of his discovery, and eagerly seized the chance of a victim to whom to unfold the tale of his prowess. Accordingly, when they were seated in a quiet nook he begin with gusto to relate his exploits. He told of his visit to Mürren, and of the photographs given to him by Mrs. Root, of his tracing the movements of the elusive lady in Southampton, of his deduction that she was an actress, and finally of his great stroke in learning her identity.
Mr. Duke, who had been following the recital with a thrille
d interest that satisfied even French’s egotism, remembered the lady’s name, though he could not recall anything else about her.
“This will be good news for Vanderkemp,” he declared. “I must tell him at once. Though you have taken off your surveillance, he feels that he has never really been cleared of suspicion. This discovery of yours will go far to satisfy him. Yes, and what then?”
He settled himself again to listen, but when he realised that French had finished his tale and was no nearer finding Miss Cissie Winter than he had been of getting hold of Mrs. X, his features took on an expression of the keenest disappointment, bordering almost on despair.
“Good heavens, Inspector! After raising my hopes, don’t tell me now that you are really practically no farther on,” he lamented. Then sinking his voice, he went on slowly, “If something isn’t discovered soon I may tell you I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m getting to the end of my tether. I’m even getting short of cash. The insurance company won’t pay—yet; they say it is not certain the stones will not be recovered. They say I must wait. But my creditors won’t wait.”
He stopped and stared before him vacantly, and French, looking at him more keenly than he had yet done, was shocked to see how old and worn the man was looking. “Even if the insurance company paid all, I don’t know that I could make ends meets,” he went on presently. “I’m beginning to see ruin staring me in the face. I thought I was strong and could scoff at reverses, but I can’t, Inspector, I can’t. I’m not the man I was, and this affair has shaken me severely.”
French was somewhat taken aback by this outburst, but he felt genuinely sorry for the old man, who at the close of a life of comparative luxury and success was faced with failure and poverty. He gave him what comfort he could, pointing out that the discovery of Mrs. X’s identity was a real step forward, and expressed the belief that so well known a personality could not long remain hidden.
“I sincerely trust you are right,” Mr. Duke answered, “and I am ashamed of having made such a fuss. But do try, Inspector,” he looked imploringly at the other, “do try to push on the affair. I know you are,” he smiled, “doing all that any one could do, but it’s so desperately important to me. You understand, I hope, that I am not complaining? I fully appreciate your splendid work in the face of great difficulties.”
French assured him that he himself was just as anxious to clear up the mystery as any one else could be, and that he need not fear but that everything possible would be done to that end, and with further expressions of mutual amity they parted.
The Inspector next turned his steps to the Comedy theatre. Rehearsals were in progress, and the building was open. Going round to the stage door, he spoke to the doorkeeper.
“No, sir,” the man said civilly, “I’m not here long. Only about nine months.”
“Who was before you?”
“A man they called Dowds, an old man. He was getting too old for the job. That’s why he left.”
“Could you put me on to where I should find him?”
“I should try at the office, sir. I expect they’d have his address. To the right at the end of this passage.”
With some difficulty French found his way to the office. A young man glanced up from the desk over which he was bending. “Well, sir?” he said briskly.
French explained his business. He was inquiring as to the whereabouts of the former actress, Miss Cissie Winter, and failing information as to her, he would be obliged for the address of the ex-stagedoor keeper, Dowds, who might be able to assist him in his main inquiry.
“Miss Cissie Winter?” the sharp young man repeated. “I’ve heard of her, but she wasn’t on here in my time. Any idea of her dates or plays?”
“Twelve or more years since she left the stage, I’m told. She played in The Office Girl and The Duchess and Oh, Johnny!”
The young man whistled beneath his breath as he sat thinking.
“’Fraid I can’t help you about the lady,” he declared at last. “There are no records here of twelve years back. But I can put you on to Dowds all right, or at least I can give you his address when he left us.”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
The young man crossed the room, and taking a book out of a cupboard, turned over the pages rapidly.
“29 Babcock Street. It’s off Charing Cross Road, about half-way down on the left hand side going south. You’ll get him there if he hasn’t moved.”
French, having noted the address, turned to go.
“Wait a sec’,” said the young man. “I’m not certain, but I believe Richard Jacques put out those plays you mentioned. If so, he could probably help you better than any one. He does business at that new place he has taken over, the Aladdin in Piccadilly. You should try him.”
French thanked his new friend, and after again traversing the endless corridors of the huge building, found himself once more in the street.
At 29 Babcock Street the door was opened to him by a respectable-looking woman, who said that her husband, Peter Dowds, was within. His health was poor, but if the gentleman would come in, he would make shift to come down to see him.
French sat down to wait in the tiny parlour. Presently a shuffling became audible in the hall, and the door, opening slowly, revealed a short but immensely stout man, whose small eyes blinked inquisitively at his visitor as the latter rose and wished him good-day.
“Good-day, good-day,” the man wheezed, as he steered himself across the room and sank into one of the chairs. “It’s the asthma,” he went on in a husky voice. “It’s always bad this time of year.” He stopped and sat panting, then went on, “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes,” French admitted, “but I’m sorry to find your asthma so bad. What do you do for it?”
The Inspector had found from long experience that the time spent in discussing his illness with an invalid was not wasted. The pleasure he gave had the effect of creating a sympathy and good feeling which assisted him when he came to the second part of the interview, the favour he wanted for himself. He was not altogether a hypocrite in this. It was part of the technique of his business, and besides, he was a good-natured man who really did like giving pleasure. He therefore talked asthma and asthma cures for some minutes before turning to the subject of Miss Cissie Winter.
But in the present case the excellent impression which he undoubtedly produced brought him but little benefit. The stout old doorkeeper remembered Miss Winter well, and instantly recognised her photograph, but he knew nothing about her present whereabouts. She had gone off with some man, a man whom also he remembered well, as on many occasions they had chatted together while the former waited at the stage door for the lady’s appearance. He was tall and well built, well on in middle age, and with the air of a professional or business man. His name, Dowds believed, was Vane, but of this he was not positive. Asked how he knew that the lady had gone off with this or any other man, it transpired that he did not really know at all, but that this had been the generally accepted theory at the time. He had never learned the man’s address, but he seemed to have plenty of money and was liberal in his tips. Since that time, about thirteen years previously, Dowds had not heard or seen anything of either. Of Miss Winter he had but a poor opinion. She might be a good actress, but she was hard and mean and had a sharp tongue. What the man could have seen in her he, Dowds, did not know, but he had evidently been pretty completely bowled over.
When French had gleaned these particulars, he found he had reached the end of the door-keeper’s usefulness, and he was soon on his way to his next call, the Aladdin theatre in Piccadilly.
Mr. Jacques was in the building, but engaged, and French fretted and fumed for nearly two hours before being ushered into his presence. But then he felt himself completely compensated for his long wait. Like most others who came in contact with him, French soon fell a victim to the great producer’s winning personality and charm of manner. The old gentleman apologised courteously for his engagement, which, he exp
lained, was a troublesome rehearsal, and then listened with close attention to what French had to say.
But he could not tell so very much after all. He remembered Miss Winter, and after a search through some old records was able to give some details of her life. He had first seen her in the Tivoli theatre in New York, some sixteen years previously, and had been struck by her acting. She had somehow learned of his presence, for she had followed him to his hotel, and explaining that she was anxious to get a footing on the English stage, had asked him for a part in one of the plays she had heard he was then bringing out. He had agreed, and when she had completed her New York engagement, she had followed him to England, and he had starred her in Oh, Johnny! and certain other plays of that period. In all she had appeared in seven productions, and Mr. Jacques had a high opinion of her capabilities.
Some three years later she had given him notice that she wished to leave the stage at the end of her then current contract. He had protested, telling her that she was ruining an extremely promising career, but she had insisted, explaining that she was going to be married. This he had not believed, though he had no definite reason for his opinion. It was generally accepted that she had gone off with some married man, but how this story arose he could not say. He had, at all events, completely lost sight of her. Her age when she left his company thirteen years earlier was twenty-nine, and her address was 17 Stanford Street, Chelsea.
“I’m afraid,” French said, “that she has turned crook,” and he outlined her impersonation of Mrs. Root.
“Of course I know nothing about that,” Mr. Jacques answered, “but I can at least tell you that no one could have carried out a scheme of the kind better than Cissie Winter. She had the brains and the nerve and the knowledge. I’m sorry to hear she has gone wrong, but if you are up against her, I can assure you you’ll find her no mean antagonist.”
French smiled ruefully as he rose.
“I’ve discovered that already,” he admitted, “but knowing what I know now, it can’t be long until I have my hands on her.”
“I suppose I ought to wish you luck,” Mr. Jacques declared, holding out his hand, “but I don’t know that I can. I thought a lot of the young woman once, and I’m sorry that she’s in trouble.”
Inspector French's Greatest Case Page 16
